User:JohnB/Fanfiction/The Siege of Castle Courthill

by JohnB

(This idea came to me from a real event that happened in my ancestral hometown in the Oldenburger-Munsterland not far from Bremen. In 1372, there was a siege on the castle there carried out by the ecclesiastical powers that controlled the region because the Holy Roman Emperor was too preoccupied with the Black Death plague to give much thought to a hijacking of a wagon train of goods that belonged to the Hanseatic League. It would have been unacceptable for my ancestors not to participate in the attack when called upon to do so. They were free landowners, but the feudal system still required fealty to the lord of the manor. If all this is beyond your historical ken, don't worry--it's only background info that sets the stage for what happens in this story.)

The Trade Route:

The trade route from Sentinel in Hammerfell runs eastward the entire length of that province. It crosses the frontier of Cyrodiil and continues a relatively short distance until it comes to the terminus, Chorrol, where caravans of the West Empire Company consign their freight to the agents there. Then taking on freight in exchange for what had been unloaded, the caravans headed west back to Sentinel.

This arrangement went on like clockwork year after year, decade after decade, century after century, and nothing could change the status quo. It was like a mystical dogma: nobody questioned it, and nobody tried to change it. Changing it was tantamount to overthrowing the entire economic system of Tamriel. One would think nobody would have the audacity to try, but as our story begins, a caravan of some twenty large carts heavily laden with all manner of goods crossed the Cyrodiil border at the sleepy village of Courthill--and then somebody did the unthinkable.

The journey from Sentinel to Chorrol was incredibly far, requiring the wagon train to stop at preset stages along the route. Courthill was one of the rest stops because it had a large inn built specifically to accommodate the dozens of wagon drivers and the guards who accompanied the caravan to prevent an ambush, which never happened anyway, so the guards really went along only for a change of scenery.

There was a lackey of the local Count Fredericus de Courthill in the tap room of the inn quaffing his mead and pinching the barmaids as they passed by. Nobody took him seriously, thinking he was a mere barfly who had nothing better to do. He was in fact keeping an eye out for his lordship to see what, if anything, transpired in this out of the way dunghill his lordship called home. He could be a real spy if given the opportunity, but that opportunity was certainly not here.

However, the sudden commotion outside the inn sounded very different from what happened on most days. Most of the freight that passed through the town was carried by a small number of carts, but here was this massive caravan parking outside as officials, drivers, and guards bellowed orders one to another. The lackey went to the window and opened it to look out. He worked his fingers as he counted off the number of carts.

He suddenly acted as if he'd had enough to drink. He paid his tab and exited the tap room. When he was out of sight of the drivers and guards, so as not to raise any suspicion, he ran like the devil with his tail on fire back to Castle Courthill to inform his lordship.

Fredericus and his Prodigies:

His lordship was presently in the rose garden doing what lordships normally do: killing time. No aristocrat was allowed even to handle money (that filthy lucre), much less ply a trade. These bushes really didn't need so much pruning because he'd already pruned them yesterday, and the day before. So he stopped and waited as the lackey gasped for air then told him in panting syllables that there was a helluva wagon train stopped outside the inn in town.

"A large caravan, you say."

The lackey nodded, still panting.

"Go ring up my prodigies!" Fredericus added and rubbed his hands together in delight.

The alarm bell was rung and Fredericus's six good-for-nothing sons assembled in the war room wondering what the hell was going on. There were Johannes (the wishy-washy one), Herbortus (the dissolute one), Statius (the sensitive one), Hugo (the scholarly bookworm), Bertramus (the weak-headed one), and Theoderic (the only half-way reliable one).

Their father laid out his plan to have each son lead a group of farmers and slaves to ambush the caravan and make off with the loot. Johannes was both for and against it. Herbortus asked what they would do to celebrate the victory. Statius tried to find a poetic equivalent for the expression, "Hell, no, I won't go!" Hugo couldn't be bothered. Bertramus said it all sounded fine with him. But Theoderic said, "Fight along side farmers and slaves? You're frigging crazy!"

"The Queen of Bandits gets away with it in the Colovian Highlands!" his father responded.

Theoderic tried to dissuade the crazy old coot, but it was no use. Pruning rose bushes all day every day probably turned his head. Theoderic had to go along in order to lend some sanity to the undertaking.

Actually, Theoderic was wrong-headed in his own way. He wasn't taking into consideration what might be termed "The Law of Broken Systems", which could be formulated like this: when a status quo has been in place for too long, and an audacious upstart goes against incompetent powers that be, the outcome will always favor the audacious upstart. For its part, the West Empire Company hired mercenaries as guards, and mercenaries were expected to provide their own weapons and armor, for which many were decked out in little more than a cuirass and a dagger. The armory in Castle Courthill was in poor repair from disuse, but bows and crossbows were plentiful and could be quickly restrung.

The Attack and its Aftermath:

A small army of about a hundred locals was mustered and quietly moved to surround the inn in the misty dawn. There were sounds of people stirring, some to go to the outhouse, others to wash up and move downstairs for a quick bite to eat. Fredericus didn't dare attack the inn itself. He sent word to all his men to wait until the wagons were harnessed and ready to move out. When the officer of the guards signaled to set out, they soon found themselves surrounded by a rabble of peasants and slaves decked out in all manner of weapons and fighting gear. The officer immediately recognized Fredericus as he approached to parley.

"Your Lordship, what is the meaning of this?!" he demanded to know.

"Officer, I am just as squeamish about bloodshed as you are, but if you don't stand down, there will be blood everywhere."

"ATTACK!" the officer yelled, but nothing happened. "I said, ATTACK!"

The guards were clearly outnumbered and unprepared to do anything. Those who could, ran, and those who couldn't, died. The officer dismounted, drew his broadsword, placed the tip between the ribs just above the heart, and fell on it. The innkeeper protested that this was a company establishment and these actions would in no way be tolerated. Fredericus responded that he should stand back or see his inn go up in flames. The wagon train and hostages were marched back to the castle, the farmers peeling off to return home with generous rewards for their participation.

The Imperial reaction to company protests was unsympathetic. If a private company couldn't see to its own security, the public sector should in no way be held responsible to compensate for its losses. If the company wanted justice, it would have to deal with it themselves.

Ten years passed as the company lobbied various strong men and local magnates to come to its assistance, during which time Fredericus was beefing up his castle defenses for the eventual showdown. (Note: it actually took thirty years due to extenuating circumstances and inertia within the Holy Roman Empire.) When enough force was finally mustered, the armies marched in to besiege Castle Courthill. I say armies because there was no one Commander in Chief: each army had its own commander who understood the overall motive and hoped-for outcome but preferred to lead his own men as he saw fit. There were colorful banners and livery, and the coats-of-arms here and there indicated the presence of numerous counts and barons who were more interested in strutting their stuff than in taking vengeance on a wayward blue-blood.

The Gauntlet is Thrown Down:

Castle Courthill was only a modest structure with a crenelated donjon and a watchtower. It was large enough to accomodate Fredericus, his sons, their families, and a cohort of retainers. The moat had been widened and deepened, and the gabled roof of the manor house was fitted out with a false roof on rollers designed to roll off harmlessly if it went up in flames. The company representative decked out in a full suit of steel armor approached the castle on horseback to parley with Fredericus.

"Your Lordship!" he called out in the hearing of everybody assembled. "As representative of the West Empire Company, I demand restitution for the villainy you carried out on one of our company caravans!"

"What took you so long?!" Fredericus called back. "That was ten years ago!"

"It doesn't matter how long ago!" the representative responded angrily. "In fact, if we were to add compounded interest to the value of said caravan, we would have the right to seize all of your assets!"

"Go to hell!" Fredericus answered and spat in his direction.

The representative wheeled his horse around and returned to his own side. A war council was held to decide what to do now. Everybody was clueless. They had one trebuchet, a kind of catapult that resembled a railroad crossing barrier with a slingshot on its tip. When released, the counterweight caused the slingshot to cast a rather heavy stone at the enemy. However, nobody present had actually used one, and the first stone it threw crashed into the trees beyond the castle. Just then iron arrows shot from the defenders rained down on them. Those who couldn't retreat fast enough ended up a corpse on the field, and there were many.

Where do they get their Stamina?!

The war council decided the next best thing to do was to starve out the defenders. Those mercenaries who were no longer needed were paid their gold and asked to leave so as not to put a drain on expenses. The besiegers built a stockade around the perimeter of the moat and a watch was set to prevent anyone from escaping by night. There was an unforeseen economic benefit to the town of Courthill as soldiers with pocket money shopped for necessities and frequented the taverns. Military discipline dictated that nothing was to be taken without being paid for in order to maintain a stable supply of provisions in the coming months, and starving out the townpeople was not part of the plan.

The summer months finally set in, and the level of the moat began to drop. Autumn promised rain, so the besiegers decided the luckless defenders were now too weak to prevent the besiegers from bridging the quagmire safely. As they set to work laying planks on the mud to make it possible to walk across, iron arrows again rained down on the defenders. Where did these guys get their stamina?! Again the field was strewn with corpses, and now the besiegers were really pissed off. They shot flaming arrows at the manor house roof and watched with dismay as the false roof rolled off leaving the real roof intact. That didn't prevent them from trying again, and the roof and then the house itself were soon engulfed in flames.

The besiegers used ladders to enter the castle. To their surprise, there were no burned corpses and nothing of value left in the rooms that were intact. They entered the dungeon and found a well-constructed tunnel through which the defenders had made their escape. When they realized that provisions were being brought in all along, the besiegers suddenly began laughing hysterically at their own foolishness. You had to hand it to Fredericus--he was a good knob even if his sons were worthless.

Castle Courthill was dismantled and the property sold to compensate the company for its loss. Fredericus and his sons remained in hiding living off charity from relatives and friends for as long as they were willing to provide it. But then they dropped from history altogether. The town of Courthill continued as a prosperous rest stop for caravans and travelers, so some good actually came from the whole chicanery. The company also saw to it that its guards were professionals fully equipped to meet any challenge.

Postscript:

(In real history, the burned out ruins were pulled down and the land sold to the Bishop of Munster. The town was occupied by Swedish troops during the Thirty Years War [1618-1648], after which it was decided the castle was necessary as a counter-weight to Protestant presence in the area, and it was rebuilt. However, a later count, who was related through marriage to the Czar of Russia, wouldn't agree to join Napoleon's Confederation of the Rhine and was forced to flee to St. Petersburg. The area was annexed to France until after the War of 1812 when Russian troops landed in Bremen to liberate it from the French.

The castle is still standing in the town of Dinklage (very roughly translated "Courthill" [literally "Place of the Thing", hard to explain without a lengthy historico-linguistic treatise]).

One fun fact: Peter Dinklage [aka Tyrion Lannister in "The Game of Thrones"] is descended from the Counts von Dinklage who used to occupy the castle.

Another fun fact: my ancestors were practically next-door neighbors.)